


in bloom

by liionne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Steve Rogers, some talk of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One the left side is a flower shop, glass windows displaying a whole array of different flowers as well as the ones sitting outside the store, and a green sign above reading “Sarah’s Flowers”. So a florist, obviously, which takes care of the smell of flowers. Next door, on the right side, a coffee shop, with a similar green sign above the door reading “The Flower Pot”. Outside are a few beautiful French bistro style tables and chairs, decorate with white table clothes and a single, small vase on each one, varying in colour, each with a different flower in. Bucky can’t see inside for the glare, but he bets it’s nice.</p><p>So, of course, he decides to head on in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in bloom

**Author's Note:**

> So many many moons ago, I did this same au but for McKirk, and I absolutely loved it. So here we are, doing the same thing for stucky. I really only wrote it because I wanted to.
> 
> Again, many thanks to my wonderful beta monkeyduels, who kindly stroked my ego with her feedback.

Bucky smells the place before he sees it. The smell of flowers and of baking, coffee, it all mingles together to make something pretty god damn nice. So Bucky looks over, metal fingers twitching in a horrible habit he’s formed that always makes the metal arm whir, and he looks at the store in question.

It seems to be a joint kind of thing, the two stores teaming up, and Bucky thinks that’s kind of sweet, actually. One the left side is a flower shop, glass windows displaying a whole array of different flowers as well as the ones sitting outside the store, and a green sign above reading _“Sarah’s Flowers”_. So a florist, obviously, which takes care of the smell of flowers. Next door ­, on the right side, a coffee shop, with a similar green sign above the door reading _“The Flower Pot”_. Outside are a few beautiful French bistro style tables and chairs, decorate with white table clothes and a single, small vase on each one, varying in colour, each with a different flower in. Bucky can’t see inside for the glare, but he bets it’s nice.

So, of course, he decides to head on in.

Crowds and coffee houses and places like this used to scare him. When he came back from the war he couldn’t be around more than four people at a time, else he’d hyperventilate. It was just too much, too many people to watch. But he’s over that, now. He’s way over it, and he can deal with people, and coffee shops? Not a problem.

The tables inside are very similar, though some have a few more chairs than the ones outside. Against the back wall there is a counter, with a little glass case full of various desserts and sandwiches and things, and another glass case under the counter filled with various backed goods, cakes and cookies. There’s a board on the wall behind the counter, a chalk board, with various drinks and foods and prices written on, and a smaller one on the counter with three different names on—Steve, Natasha, and Peggy. To the side, Steve can see a door leading to the flower shop, covered only by some beads; there’s a similar one behind the counter, but that one remains uncovered.

So Bucky steps further inside, and sees a woman move back to the behind the counter. She looks like she’s just stepped out of the 40s, dark hair perfectly curled, dress a dark blue and covered in little white polka dots, which almost match her frilly white apron. When she speaks it’s with a clipped English accent, and a smile from a rose-red pair of lips.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Uh—“ Bucky looks at the menu above her, and rubs the back of his neck. “A black coffee, please?”

“Alright.” She nods, ringing it into the till; it seems pretty old fashioned, but he kind of likes that. “Anything else?”

Bucky looks at all the various goods that are on display, and squints. They all have flowers in, apparently. He wasn’t expecting that.

“The flowers sometimes put people off.” Peggy explains – Peggy, ‘cause she’s wearing a name tag. “But trust me, everything here’s to _die_ for. Steve makes them himself, he’s the owner.”

“Did you say something?”

A male voice emerges from a room behind the counter, a man with a plate in hand, piled high with pinky coloured scones, steam still rising from them, but really, Bucky’s not interested in the scones (no matter how good they smell). He’s far more interested in the guy holding them – two hundred pounds of blonde haired blue eyed gorgeousness, wrapped up in a stripy apron.

Bucky’s mouth is watering, but he’s honestly not sure if it’s the scones or this guy.

“I was just telling the gentleman about your baking.” Peggy grins, and Steve, because it’s obviously Steve, _blushes_.

“Well, they’re my ma’s recipes. And if you’re looking for something to ease you in I’d give with the Lavender and White Chocolate Opera Cake – it’s just a teeny bit of Lavender, we usually recommend it to people on their first stop by.” And then he smiles at Bucky, dazzling white and slightly lopsided, and Bucky just melts away.

“I’ll have that, then.” He nods, probably too eager. When he looks up he gives Steve a smile that must be slightly dopey, and then looks to peggy as she speaks, gives him a price. He hands over the money, and a tip, and sits himself down at a table in the corner.

The place looks like something out of a novel, or an artist’s painting, not real life. How can it be real life, honestly? It’s so bright and colourful, gleaming in the sunshine that streams through the windows, and it’s like nothing he’s ever seen before. The best thing? It’s pretty quiet. There’s an older guy sitting in the opposite corner of the room, a woman reading a book somewhere in the middle, and him. That’s it. And Bucky is definitely absolutely over the thing with crowds, but hey, it’s just nice to have some peace and quiet.

There is a stack of books against one wall, and so he moves to look at them, fingers scanning each one. There’s an absolute mess of genres – a few books about gardening, a few recipe books, some mystery novels and crime thrillers, the occasional romance. There’s a book of jokes propped up in the corner, and a copy of The Hungry Caterpillar. Bucky picks up the copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, and takes it back to his table.

Peggy is just setting his stuff down, a coffee and a slice of cake that looks absolutely sinful. He smiles at her, thanks her, and she raises her eyebrows at his choice of literature.

“Never read it before.” He explains, a sardonic smile on his face.

“It’s a page turner.” She nods, joking of course, and leaves with the tray tucked under her arm.

He must sit there for another hour, long after his coffee has been drained away and his plate has been all but licked clean. He looks around the place, at the walls, at the flowers. On his table there is a little flower, a daisy, and he feels the petals between thumb and finger, metal hand curled around the cup. It’s just so dainty in here, so delicate.

And of course, there’s Steve. Steve, whose laughter can be heard throughout the entire store, who goes and sits with the old man in the corner and chats for a while like they’re old friends, and then he moves to ask the lady if she’s good, how her book is, and they chat for a few moments like both of them are in the same book club or something, before he moves on. When he reaches Bucky, he stands behind the only chair at the empty table, and meets his gaze.

“Everything okay for you?”

Bucky nods, meeting his gaze for a split second before he looks at the empty mug, at the flower in the little vase. Steve’s eyes are too bright, and too blue. Too much for one man to handle.

“Perfect. The cake was _amazing_.” He looks up again, and wonders if he should shield his eyes as one would the sun. He doesn’t.

Steve nods eagerly. “I’m glad to hear it. Most people start on that one, but I love the rose-flavoured stuff, y’know? It’s pretty strong, but it can be really nice.”

Bucky nods. “Maybe next time.” He says.

Steve seems to brighten a shade at that, like a child being told they’re off to the candy store, and Bucky didn’t think it was possible for him to look anymore adorable, but he does. He honestly does. “I’m glad to hear it.”

There’s a moment, a beat, and then Bucky stands. “I really should be going, though.” He says, shuffling. “It was lovely to meet you – all of you.”

“It was lovely to meet you too.” Steve says, and he sounds so sincere that Bucky could just cry.

He leaves without tears, though, and he gets to his apartment without incidence. He sits, and he thinks about everything, everything about that café, and about Steve. Especially Steve. He feels like a fool with a crush, but god, it feels good.

~*~

It takes him three days before he goes back. Everything is very much the same, save for the names on the board on top of the counter; _Sam, Sharon, Steve._

Bucky relaxes infinitesimally, and heads to the counter.

The guy at the counter has a kind smile and kinder eyes, and Bucky assumes him to be Sam. He’s wearing an apron that has loads of googly eyes and flower stickers on it, a little bit of glitter. Bucky feels like there’s a story to that, but he hasn’t been here long enough to be able to ask.

“Hey, can I get you anything?”

“Uh…” Bucky looks at the menu again, though he’s pretty sure he memorised it the first time. “I’ll have a black coffee, and…”

“Coconut and Lavender Macaroons.” Steve says, appearing from the kitchen at the back. A blonde girl in another apron shimmies past him, and goes to collect the dishes of the old man and his newspaper in the corner of the room. Steve serves some muffins that smell strongly of lemon and something he can’t quite put his finger on, and leans almost nervously against the counter. “If you like the sound of that?”

“They sound good.” He nods. Sam smiles, tells him he’ll bring it over, but Steve interjects: “I was gonna go for my break, actually. Mind if I join you? I’ll bring the stuff over.”

Bucky stammers a little bit, mind going completely blank. Steve wants to sit with him. Steve wants to spend _time_ with him. He shifts, and then he nods, probably slightly too enthusiastic as wisps of dark hair fall free of his bun.

“Sure. Yeah. That’d be great.” He says, and it earns him a smile as bright as a 100 Watt bulb. He goes to his table in the corner, having paid and given his tip, and he waits.

Steve comes over about five minutes later with two black coffees, and a plate of four macaroons. He sets them all out, and then puts the tray on a neighbouring empty table.

“Is it always so quiet in here?” Bucky asks, when Steve finally settles. There is that old man reading his paper again, but the only other person in the shop is a blind man and his friend, who speak in hushed whispers, and a woman who seems to be waiting for someone. There are more people compared to last time, but still – not many people.

“It’s mid-day mid-week. We get most of our customers on the weekends, or in the morning. It can be _really_ busy in the morning.” Steve says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Bucky nods thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense. People going to work and stuff, right?”

“Right.” Steve agrees. “And I do a lot of baking right before the store opens, so everything’s all fresh and warm.”

Bucky’s stomach gurgles just at the thought of it. He looks down at the macaroons, and picks one up with flesh fingers. “So this is a step up from the Opera Cake, huh?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “Slightly more flavour from the lavender. Bit of a kick, but it’s still not too strong.” Bucky looks at it, eyes narrowing, and he feels Steve fidget from across the table. “You really don’t have to eat them.” He says. “You can order whatever you want, I just thought you might like these.”

“No, no,” Bucky shakes his head. “I want to. I get into habits, y’know? It’s good to try new things.”

Steve nods in agreement, thoughtful, and he takes one of the macaroons too, biting it in half. Bucky follows suit, flavour bursting across his tongue, and he might just make something like a moan. If he does, Steve either doesn’t hear it, or doesn’t acknowledge it, and for that, Bucky is grateful.

“So… why this?” He asks curiously, holding the second half of the macaroon between thumb and finger, and pressing a little bit. Their table has a pink tulip on it, standing upright in the vase. Bucky likes tulips. “The whole flower-café thing, why?”

Steve smiles in a way that seems sad, and reminiscent, and Bucky already regrets asking. “The café belonged to my dad, and the flower shop belonged to my mom. When they got married, they merged; knocked a hole in the wall so they could spend every day together. But then my dad died, and so my mom took on both of the stores, and kind of just… merged them.”

“So you own the flower shop too?” Bucky asks, eyebrows arching.

“Yeah.” He nods. “But I’m not florist. I leave that to Peggy, she’s our florist, she just works in here sometimes when it’s quiet. Peter, one of our other guys, swears blind that he’s not a florist, but he is. He’s really good at putting together wedding bouquets. And the other Peter, little Peter, he runs the store on a Saturday; Saturday jobs are kinda hard to come by these days, so I thought, why not?”

Bucky listens, elbows on the table, fascinated. Steve really does seem like a good guy, taking on both businesses rather than selling up, giving out jobs to kids because they need the money – Bucky wishes he could be this good. He wishes he could be worthy of Steve.

Did he just think that?

He mentally shakes it off, and looks at Steve once more. Steve, sipping his coffee, smiles at him. “So are you new ‘round here? I haven’t seen you around before.”

His cheeks are pink, probably from working in the kitchen all morning, and his hair is mussed, Bucky notices. He almost forgets to answer. “Uh—yeah. Something like that.”

He is and he isn’t. This is not his first time here but it is also his first time being here after the war, and everything is a little bit different, almost a new experience. He shifts a tiny bit, left hand slipping beneath the table, where it cannot be seen. “I was in the army; moved here when I was done. I lived here before, but uh—everything’s a bit different.”

Steve nods. “I get it. It was the same when I came back. Nothing’s the same.”

Steve says it so blasé, like going off and fighting in a war is nothing, like it’s something that can just so easily be admitted to. But then, Steve doesn’t look like he had his left arm blown off by an IED, does he?

“You were in the army?”

Steve nods. His coffee cup is empty, so he grabs another macaroon, holding it in long fingers but not yet taking a bite. “Yeah. Captain Rogers, at your service. Been out for about… three years? Kind of hard to adjust, at first, but I had this place to get me back on my feet.” He pauses, and then he smiles at Bucky, the kind of smile that makes him want to melt and cry all at the same time. “You should come here more often. See if it helps you as much as it helped me.”

Bucky nods, those few little wispy bits of hair flying around his face. “We’ll see, huh?”

Steve gives him a grin, and Bucky knows that he’s gone on this guy.

~*~

He wakes up early the next morning, a restless night’s sleep leading him to go for an early jog, hair tied up in a little ponytail at the back of his head, bouncing as he runs. He runs until his lungs ache and his forehead is dripping with sweat, and then, he checks the time. 7am. He’s going for a coffee.

He walks to the shop, sweat now dried and hair falling back into place, but his muscles and lungs still ache, so coffee, he thinks, and maybe a glass of water, are a necessity right now. He has his eyes on the pavement as he walks in, stepping inside. It’s crowded, a hell of a lot of people, but Bucky can deal with crowds, now. He’s not fresh out of the war, he’s not crippled with PTSD, he can do it.

He can’t do it.

He panics, ten steps into the room. He looks for the exit but a mother and her three children and a man in a business suit have blocked it, and he can’t escape to the flower shop because of the people waiting for the takeaway orders, blocking the doorway. He feels his breathing pick up, chest rising and falling, tears at the back of his eyes stinging, threatening to spill over.

A hand takes his, holds it tight, and Bucky looks up to see Steve. “Come with me.”

He’s an actual knight in shining armour.

Steve leads him around the café, through crowds of people whose presence make his chest feel tight, and behind the counter. They slip into the back room, the kitchen, which is surprisingly cool when Bucky considers the size of the oven against one wall.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, hands curled around the edge of the counter, one metal, one flesh, and if Steve notices what Bucky usually tries so hard to hide, he doesn’t say anything.

“I know what it’s like.” Steve says after a moment, when Bucky’s grip has slackened and his breathing is somewhat normal. “When I came back, I couldn’t step into a room if I couldn’t see the door, and all four walls. Took months before—“

“I’m fine.” Bucky says, weary. “I’m fine with crowds.”

He isn’t fine with crowds.

For a moment, Steve doesn’t say anything, but then there’s a beat, and his soft voice, “It’s okay not to be.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He just stares at the bench.

~*~

He sits in the kitchen for the next two hours, watching Steve bake. It’s funny; he’ll talk to Bucky, but when he’s not talking he’s singing along to dumb pop songs, or humming along to the jazz music he eventually puts on to drown out a group of chattering business men and women who visibly set Bucky’s teeth on edge. He dances, hops and skips from one work bench to the other, to the oven, and eventually, it makes Bucky smiles. He knows that that’s what Steve is aiming for. He’s looking at making him smile. And it works too, the dumb bastard, because after a half an hour Bucky’s grinning broadly, watching Steve fumble over his own two feet.

“You’re a terrible dancer.” He snorts.

“Never did learn.” Steve says. “Doesn’t stop me though.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye that makes Bucky smile even brighter, and when he leans down to pull a Victorian Rose Poundcake out of the oven, Bucky gets a good look at his ass. He has nothing to complain about with an ass like that on display.

When the crush of people have gone, Steve grabs a tray, sets up a pot of lemon and orange tea and two slices of the freshly baked cake, and carries it out to the café. Rather than pausing and picking a table, he carries it straight outside. The sun hits the café just right from this angle, illuminating the cast iron tables and chairs. Steve picks one, setting their food down, and he pulls Bucky’s seat out for him. Bucky gladly, if bashfully, accepts, and sits down with a little smile.

“I know you usually have coffee, but the tea is really good, trust me. This one’s my favourite.” Steve nods, pouring out two cups and picking one up, bringing it to his lips. “And that cake isn’t anything too fancy. Tiny hint of rose.”

Bucky nods, and tries both, holding back a moan because the _cake_. He’s going to have to start going running again, or something, because with the amount of Steve’s cakes he’s gonna be eating, he’ll need the exercise. He all but demolishes it, his previous nausea forgotten and his plate empty in second, nothing but crumbs and smeared icing left behind.

“How did you get over it?” Bucky asks, looking over at Steve, who’s still sipping his tea. He knows that the other will know what they’re tlkaing about, of course. It’s kind of hard to forget.

Steve shrugs. “Sam used to work at the VA; he’s a veteran too, pretty well adjusted. He helped me out. But the shop, too – being here. I know where all the exits are, I’m around crowds a lot – it helps. Exposure.” Bucky nods gravely. He holes himself up in a one bedroom apartment pretty much all the time. Exposure is the opposite of what he gets. “Don’t get me wrong.” Steve continues. “I can’t listen to fireworks without having flashbacks, and if a car backfires in the street I’ll not be able to move, but—crowds I got used to.”

“Thunder.” Bucky says, after a moment’s thought. “I don’t like thunder.”

Steve nods as if he understands, and together, they fall silent.

“What do you do now?” Steve asks, looking at him over his mug.

“Uh…” Bucky tries to think of a lie. He doesn’t. “I don’t really do anything. I come here? I go for walks, but…”

Steve nods. He considers things for a second. “You should come in more often. You can be my tester; I always make too many of everything, I need someone to eat the spares and try them out.” He grins, and Bucky – well, Bucky can get on board with that.

He comes every single day, at 11am, and every day Steve has his coffee waiting for him, and something new, and equally as tasty as the day before.

“You’re fattening me up.” Bucky says, through a mouthful of Rose and Cinammon Scone. “You’re going to cook me in your oven and turn me into pies, aren’t you?”

“Damn.” Steve hisses. “You caught me.”

Bucky grins, but he swallows, and sips his coffee. “I’m serious, though. I’m gonna get fat, and I really can’t afford that.”

It makes him sound vain, but it’s actually for the arm; he needs to maintain a certain amount of muscle mass in order to keep good control of it, and he’s not doing that if he’s sat here eating cake and watching Community in his apartment/hovel.

“Come training with me. I usually do weights on a morning, and then I go running with Sam. You’re more than welcome to join us.” Steve shrugs, resting his crossed arms on the counter.

Bucky nods. “I’d like that.” He says. “Yeah.”

Steve gives him a bright smile, and Bucky knows he’s screwed. So screwed. Steve could invite him to go bunjee jumping without a rope with a smile like that, and Bucky might just say yes. “Awesome. I’ll give you my address, and we can we go and meet Sam. You can shower at mine too, if you like.”

Showering at Steve’s house. Steve showering. Showering with Steve. Shit, no—“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.” He nods.

Steve beams. “Awesome.” He grabs a napkin, and a pen. “So we start at 6am, and we go around the park, it’s not too far…”

~*~

Bucky gets up at 5, and wishes he was back in bed. Violently. He stares forlornly at his pillow as he pulls on a pair of running shoes, shorts and a sweater, and heads outside into the early morning light.

The streets are deadly silent, just a few cars and taxis zipping past every so often. Steve doesn’t live too far away, so getting there is easy. What’s not easy? Keeping his jaw closed when he sees Steve waiting for him.

He’s wearing a t-shirt that is, quite frankly, _obscene_. It must be at least two sizes too small. Every time he’s seen Steve so far, he’s been wearing his apron, so whilst those biceps have been on display every day, he hasn’t seen the full picture. And it’s a pretty good picture.

He blinks a few times, trying to get over what he just witnessed, and then he smiles as he greets Steve.

“You made it.” Steve grins, looking to Bucky and then to the dawn, sun still low over the horizon. “Didn’t know if you’d come, with how early it is.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s alright once you’re out.” He says, which is true. He doesn’t wish for his bed as violently as he once had.

Steve nods in understanding, claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulders, and gestures to the road in front of him. “Let’s get going.”

They jog at an easy pace, like a warm up to the real thing, and Bucky likes it. He doesn’t break too much of a sweat in the cool morning air, his pace easy, muscles quickly adjusting. When they meet Sam at the entrance of the park, he joins onto their little convoy, and runs alongside him.

“Barnes – nice to see you, man.” He says, and Bucky knows that he genuinely means it. Sam really does think that it’s nice to see him.

“Nice to see you too.” Bucky says.

He means it.

Once in the park, the pace picks up a fair bit, like Steve and Sam are trying to outdo each other. Bucky settles in close to Sam’s pace than to Steve’s, and he wonders for a second if Steve’s a superhero in disguise; no guy should be able to run like he is. Bucky kind of marvels at him as Steve gains, running a few paces ahead. His ass looks pretty good as he runs, Bucky won’t lie, but watching the muscles of his back and legs shifts as he moves is something else altogether.

After a few laps, Bucky settles against a tree trunk with Sam, and pours a bottle of water over his head, drinking what he manages to save in the bottom.

“He’s inhuman.” Bucky pants, lungs and legs aching. “He can’t be real.”

“Runs like that every damn day.” Sam returns, panting hard. “Every. Damn. Day.”

Steve joins them, sweat covering his cheekbones and his forehead, turning the light grey of his t-shirt a darker shade around his neck and his underarms. But still, though he’s breathing heavily, he seems to be holding up okay. Or at least, he’s not dying like Bucky is.

“Alright?” Steve asks, and Bucky huffs.

“I’m dying.” He declares, and both Steve and Sam chuckle.

“You’ll get used to it.” Steve says. Sam looks at Bucky, and shakes his head, which only makes both Steve and Bucky laugh. Steve takes a moment to catch his breath, hands on his hips, and he holds out his hand to Bucky. “Shower at my place?” he asks.

For a second, Bucky is caught up in the thought of them showering _together_ , and then he realises that isn’t what Steve meant. But still, Bucky nods. He feels really gross, and his apartment feels too far away. “Sure.”

They walk back home, waving goodbye to Sam after a moment. It’s just after six thirty when they leave the park, and about seven once they drag their asses back to Steve’s place. Steve opens the door, and holds it open for Bucky, a true gentleman. Bucky slips inside, and looks around.

It’s nice. Homely, and lived in, but… neat. Efficient. Touches of the military everywhere, in the sense that everything is ship-shape with not a hair out of place. Bucky feels like if he went up to Steve’s bedroom right now, he’d find his bed perfectly made and his shoes at the end of it, polished and ready. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but he’s lingering on it being a bad thing.

Still, some things you leave behind, others you carry with you. Sam’s words, not his.

“You can use the guest bathroom.” Steve says, closing the door and locking it behind him, probably because they’re both about to be in the shower, where they won’t know whether or not someone is opening the door and sneaking inside to steal all of Steve’s neatly arranged stuff. “The shower in there’s pretty good.”

“Thank you.” Bucky nods. He pauses, and toes off his shoes by the door, because it feels like the right thing to do. Steve does the same, and he smiles at Bucky.

Bucky makes it halfway up the stairs before Steve says, “Oh! And you can borrow some of my clothes, if you want. Better than getting into your sweaty stuff again, right?”

“Right.” Bucky agrees. He doubts anything of Steve’s is really going to fit him, but he’s right – it’s better than putting on his sweaty stuff again.

He goes upstairs, and strips once the bathroom door is well and truly locked. Though the metal arm is supposedly waterproof, he prefers to take it off when it comes to the shower. He sets it atop his pile of clothes, and steps into the shower.

It’s really, really nice. The hot water drives the sweat from his skin, leaving him baby pink and fresh-feeling, sweet smelling. The soap is some kind of shower gel, Axe or whatever, but the shampoo he finds is apple scented, and the conditioner he picks up (he hasn’t conditioned his hair since before the war, but there’s a first time for everything) is apple scented too, filling the room with the sweet scent. He likes it; it’s comforting. He steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist with the gracelessness only an amputee can manage, and pokes his head out of the bathroom door. Below him, on the floor, is a pile of clean, fresh clothes, perfectly folded, complete with socks. He smiles to himself, and heads back into the room to get ready.

He usually pulls his underwear, socks and jeans on with the one arm, and then reaches for his metal arm, but today, he can’t seem to get it in the right place. It’s a specific fit, slotting into a certain place, and it needs to be secure – he knows he should wear the strap that comes with it to stop it from moving, but he never, ever does. Too much hassle. He curses, fingers slippery from the shower and the conditioner left on his hands, and tries to get it into place.

After ten minutes of slipping and sliding, he knows he needs help. He tugs his t-shirt on angrily, and grips the metal arm tight. He’s just gonna go out there. He’s just gonna do it, he’s gonna go out there, and ask Steve for help, and it’s all going to be fine.

He opens the bathroom door slowly, carefully, and creeps along the hall. Why he creeps he doesn’t know – he just does. He finds Steve’s room at the end of the hall, and when he goes to knock, the door opens just a little bit, creaking as it goes.

Steve is standing with his back to Bucky, facing the wardrobe, evidently looking for a shirt. Bucky’s seen him in those jeans before, but now the skin of his back is exposed, pale pink from the shower and revealing shifting muscles as he moves hangers along the rail. When he hears the door creak he turns, and he smiles when he sees Bucky. There’s not a blemish on his skin, Bucky notes, as he stares at Steve’s bare chest. Lucky bastard.

Steve must have caught him staring, or something, because his cheeks are bright pink now, and he’s biting his lip.

“You okay?” He asks.

Bucky edges into the room, and holds up his metal arm. “I, uh—I need help.”

Steve nods, and pats the side of the bed, quickly turning to grab a t-shirt just as tight as the last one, which he proceeds to pull over his head. Bucky sits down on the bed, and rolls the sleeve of the t-shirt up until the stump of his arm is visible.

“I always wondered how it works.” Steve admits, as he takes the army from Bucky. He must be surprised at how heavy it is, because he makes a slightly shocked face, adjusting his grip on it. He stands by Bucky’s side, leaning over him a little bit. He smells good, like soap and aftershave and something distinctly Steve, and it’s a nice combination. Bucky just has to try not to inhale too deeply.

It takes a little more fumbling, but eventually, Steve slots the arm into place. Bucky waits until he hears it whir, and then moves the metal fingers, wiggling them all as the arm calibrates.

“I don’t really know how it works.” He says eventually, looking down at his hand. “Something to do with the internal wiring joining up to whatever’s left of the nerves in my arm.”

Steve nods, looking at it like that’ll satisfy him for now, even if he would like to ask more questions. Bucky, hesitant, asks, “You… don’t think it’s weird?”

“Weird?” Steve asks, looking at him with raised brows. “I think—I think it’s kind of beautiful.” He runs his finger carefully over one of the metal plates in the back of Bucky’s hand, and smiles. “I think it’s amazing.”

They’re really, really close. Steve’s face is only inches from his, his breath occasionally catching Bucky’s face, mingling with his own, and it’s starting to make his chest hitch. He looks up at Steve, and blinks. “And you don’t… you don’t think _I’m_ weird?”

He must do, Bucky thinks. He must. Just because of the way Bucky is. Afraid of crowds even though he’s adamant that he’s not, the way he always takes two sips of his coffee before he puts the cup down, never just one, never three, always two, or the way he eats moves his food around the plate, no matter what it may be, until he deems it in an acceptable position to be eaten. He knows that Steve has noticed all of that kind of stuff. He’s seen his eyes linger on it before, and Bucky had wanted to melt into the floor. He likes Steve. He likes Steve a _lot_. But he seriously, seriously doubts that Steve likes him back.

“Weird? No, Bucky.” Steve shakes his head, sitting down on the bed beside him and taking hold of Bucky’s hand. “I don’t think you’re weird at all.”

“You should.” Bucky says, shrugging. He looks to the floor.

Steve pauses, his hand still holding Bucky’s, and he shakes his head again. “Sam says that we all cope in different ways. You know when I came back from the war, I only ever did two things: I baked, or I painted. I was always doing one or the other, used to avoid sleep, keep myself busy. But it wasn’t like it was a hobby. If I got a piece of eggshell in the batter, I’d scrap the whole mixture. Or if I painted a little bit out of the line I’d sketched, I’d throw the canvas in the trash and start again.” Bucky looks up at him, and finds Steve smiling at him gently. “We all cope differently, okay?”

Bucky nods. “Just…” He sighs. “How did you get over it?”

“Good friends.” Steve answers. “Good friends, and people who I trusted.”

“I trust you.” Bucky says. He wonders if that’s ridiculous; he hasn’t known Steve all that long, not really, but he trusts him with his life. He trusts him not to hurt him, and not to let him hurt himself, which is mad. It must be. He feels like he’s known Steve all his life when he barely knows him at all.

“That’s good.” Steve murmurs. “I trust you too. And I’m always here for you. Always.”

Bucky smiles at him, lips twitching upward just a little. He wonders if now is the right time. He wonders if now is really appropriate. He thinks maybe it isn’t, but then, before he can stop himself, his lips run away from him. “Can I kiss you?”

Steve’s smile becomes something fond, and affectionate. “I’d like that.” He says.

And when Bucky leans in to kiss him, at first a soft press of lips on lips and then something more, a little deeper, a little more passionate, though still so gentle, he finds he cannot help but smile along with him.

~*~

Bucky sits in the café just after rush hour, when the restaurant is still a bit busy, and he looks at the flower in the vase. A single red rose, completely de-thorned. Bucky knows that Steve put it there just for him; the dumb sap always does. But still, it’ nice, and Bucky thumbs one of the petals with his flesh thumb and fore finger, breathing in the scent.

A tray is set down in front of him, and Bucky smiles. One cup of coffee, a cup of earl grey, and two raspberry and violet tartlets (new to the menu, Steve is very proud). When Bucky looks up at his boyfriend, he finds him wearing a flower crown made entirely of pink roses. He holds one made entirely out of daisies out to Bucky, and places it atop his recently cut hair.  “Beautiful.” He beams, and Bucky sniggers.

He looks down at his plate, and picks up his fork. He’s getting better, he thinks. He actually wears that strap for the arm every so often, per Steve’s badgering, and he goes running every morning. He can handle little crowds, now, and he doesn’t move his food around his plate as much. He gives the tartlet a gentle nudge, a sight tap with his fork, and then dives in.

He’s not entirely cured. He still has a panic attack if he finds himself in a crowd that’s just too big for him, and he still has that little thing with the drinks. He doesn’t like Steve touching his stump of an arm directly, though he doesn’t mind him looking at it too much.

Steve is good for him, he thinks. He gets out of the house more, now, going to the café or to Steve’s place, or to the local diner, or the park. It was Steve who helped him get over some of his little niggly habits, and the fear of crowds. It’s Steve who holds him when they spend the night together, rocking him and soothing him through his nightmare. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like something that’s going to last.

As Bucky chews, he gives a moan that is definitely too suggestive for 9am, and sinks back into his seat. “Steve.” He groans. “I’m gonna marry you just for your baking skills.”

Steve grins at him across the table, chewing through his own tartlet. “Just my baking skills? I’m appalled.”

“Sorry.” Bucky says. “Your rockin’ bod too.”

Steve beams at him, breaking into a chuckle, and Bucky leans forward across the table to press a kiss to his lips.

“Disgusting!” Natasha calls from behind the counter. Sam laughs, but he doesn’t pass comment.

The only response Bucky has is to make exaggerated kissy noises, puckering his lips and smooching Steve sloppily. Steve, of course, does the exact same, and they only stop when they burst into laughter, and Natasha rolls her eyes good naturedly and heads back into the flower shop.

“I have a proposition for you.” Steve says eventually, sipping his cup of tea.

Bucky narrows his eyes. For some reason, that makes him oddly nervous, and his heart pounds. “What?” he says.

“Well,” Steve begins. “The community centre is running flower arranging classes, and the flower store needs a new manager. I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like to go to the class with me, and maybe take over the store?”

He says it hesitantly, like he’s worried Bucky will say no, but honestly? Bucky thinks that’s a pretty good gig. Still, nerves. He’s never had that kind of responsibility before. “I know nothing about owning a business, Stevie.”

“You don’t have to.” Steve says. “I’ll train you in the things you need to know, and I’ll handle everything else. Carol’s leaving, and she normally runs the store. I just thought maybe you’d like the opportunity.”

It is a good opportunity, he thinks. The flower store isn’t half as busy as the café is, which is perfect for Bucky, and it still gives him a reason to get out of the house, and an actual job to put on his CV, should he ever attempt to get another job in the future. And, of course, it means being a maximum of six feet away from Steve at any given time. And with the right training, and the right knowledge, maybe…

Well. Maybe he’ll do a good job.

“Alright.” Bucky nods. “I’ll do it.”

Steve gives him that blindingly bright smile, and leans across the table to kiss him again. It’s swift but happy, joyful, and Steve settles back into his chair looking like he’s vibrating out of his skin, a puppy dog that just learned it was going for a walk.

“Awesome.” He grins. “I’m glad. I _hate_ job interviews.”

“Mm.” Bucky hums, sipping his coffee. “Isn’t it kinda biased just to give the position to your boyfriend, though?”

Steve shrugs. “Who cares? It’s my store, and y’know—I’m kind of in love with you.”

And well, Bucky really can’t argue that.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts, questions and comments are welcome at [my tumblr](http://achaiion.tumblr.com)


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